Page 121 of Savannah Royals
“No, I’m fine. It’ll stop bleeding soon. The mouth is a highly vascular area of the body, like the rest of the head. It will clot imminently—the intrinsic cascade takes a few minutes to kick in before establishing a decent platelet plug.”
“At ease, doc,” Ethan mutters.
The parasol-toting couple is less than ten feet away now.
“Shall we?” I formally slide my arm back into Matthew’s.
To my surprise, Ethan takes my other arm, anchoring me between them. Mellie is tucked securely to his opposite side, chin up and hat tilted to keep the sun out of her eyes. The men walk slowly, genteel grins pasted to their faces. Not a hair out of place. No one would ever suspect the four of us were just involved in a brawl. Instead, we drift along the walking path like a respectable unit. A quad of con artists in their own right, no one the wiser.
It’s not the unit I’m used to, certainly, but as I chance a glance to my left at Ethan and Mellie, another to my right for Matthew, I decide something.
It’s not a bad trade-off. Not a bad trade-off at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mylipsbleedgarnetred. Green eyes lined with black coal. My dark hair is pulled back in a sleek twist, swept away from my face and neck.
My fingers are—for once—wholly bare, save a thick, decorative silver band I crafted in Ray’s shop to cover my tattoo.
My evening gown is black and drop-waisted with ornate obsidian beadwork shimmering down its barrel length. A low, scooped neckline graces the front, plunging deeper than deep across my back, bare skin cleverly muted by a trailing sheer cape cascading from my shoulders to brush a quarter-inch on the floor. It whispers behind my heels, sensual and mysterious, as I walk. The cut of the gown is just loose enough to conceal two deep, silk-lined pockets at my waist.
It’s within those pockets I place my plunder—the forged DaMolin rubies. Hundreds of hours of impossibly hard work dropped unceremoniously into the lining of a skirt. It’s irreverent.
“Come in,” I call when a knock sounds at the door.
Matthew leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, open appreciation filling his blue eyes. “Kat, you are stunning. So beautiful.”
So is he. His blond hair is swept back and tamed, flipping out in adorable curls over his collar. His white bow tie and dark evening tailcoat are crisp and sharp, black patent shoes shining on his feet. And his smile is, as always, radiant.
I cross the room to join him. “Shall we proceed downstairs to meet your family?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. I have something to give you. Something for you to wear tonight.” He takes my hand to lead me from the room, going deeper into the second floor of Cherokee Cottage. My heart accelerates—anxiety, trepidation, and excitement rolled into one.
Matthew pauses at an innocuous door at the end of the hallway. “This is the vault. Ethan locked me in here once during a game of hide-and-seek when I was four. I screamed for hours, but it’s soundproof. Mom was livid when she finally found me.”
“I bet,” I reply, breathless, as he slides a brass key into the lock.
The vault is brightly lit, as luminous as the front room of Ray’s shop. Full length mirrors dominate an entire wall; a row of white drawers and compartments stands opposite. Glass cases are stacked in a back corner, and I squint, tempted to behold the treasures therein. Matthew distracts me when, with a flourish, he opens a long, flat drawer to our right.
I’m dazzled by the gemstones hidden within. Necklaces, rings, earrings, bracelets…glittering in every color of the rainbow and all tucked snugly into black velvet.
I laugh. “Matt, I’m not certain I should be in here.”
“Believe me, I know. Keep your sticky fingers to yourself,” he teases as he slides the drawer shut. I fold my hands before me, prim. He laughs.
“You know diamonds are my Achilles’ heel,” I point out. “And there are an awful lot of them in this room.”
“There are,” he agrees. “You’ll be wearing some tonight.”
My heart hammers as he crouches down. He produces another key to open a low drawer. When it slides open, I finally see them. In the flesh.
The DaMolin rubies.
I blink and hold my breath as Matthew lifts them out.
“Turn around,” he tells me.
I do. In the reflection of the mirror, I watch a very intentional, sure-fingered Matthew DaMolin slide the ruby necklace around the throat of a wide-eyed woman. Only their weight grounds me in the moment, the unexpected coolness of the gems resting heavily against my décolletage.
